


Base Notes

by Amand_r



Series: Gold Dust Universe [4]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Multi, drunkfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:57:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto glances at Lisa.  'You know how this is going to end.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Base Notes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cruentum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruentum/gifts).



> extended scene for [Quality Time](http://amand-r.livejournal.com/431862.html) which is a deleted _Gold Dust_ scene to begin with. For mah writing monster partner, cruentum, who is the most ridiculously softhearted hard ass I ever met. LITE BEER! INSPIRED BY RECENT EVENTS! WOOO!

Lisa has swept Evan off whilst Ianto tries to mumble something about Torchwood business. He begins to talk about the EMP and the net when Jack slides his coat off and raises his eyebrows.

'Is it contained?' Well, yes. 'Is anyone dead?' Well, no. 'All right then.' And then Jack rolls his shoulders, does a half-turn and falls backwards onto the sofa.

Ianto sits next to him and Jack leans back, his tie loose but not undone. There's lipstick on his collar. Ianto wants to either kiss it or wash it off so it doesn't stain. He's not sure which.

'How was the ballet?'

Jack rolls his head so he can look at Ianto, and his eyes are winky with the sated look of one who is utterly relaxed. If it had been anyone else, Ianto would have said that Jack could sleep right there. 'It was full of old people.'

'I didn't know that old people danced ballet,' Ianto says around a yawn. 'I would think that would lead to walkers and falls.'

Jack snorts. 'No, the audience. The woman next to me was wearing Chantilly.' His eyes off centre, and his gaze seems to be captured by something not even in the room. 'It didn't used to be an old lady perfume. It was nice. House of Dana. In the forties.' One hand raises so that he can stare at it, wave it about. 'I think I gave some to Estelle.'

Ianto frowns. 'Lisa wears. She wears…' He can't for the life of him remember, because the label is never on the fucking bottle.

Jack stands, wobbly. 'Woo.' Ianto steadies him a little, standing and thinking that he might have to lead him to the head to sick up.

'You drank a lot?'

Jack's smile is more than a thousand watts. Fifteen hundred, maybe. 'Lisa might have encouraged me to drink some champagne,' Jack hums into his neck. 'I killed the bottle.'

Ianto lets Jack gather one of his hands up by his chest, the other at his waist, and lead him around in a little bit of a dance that is possibly the most erotic and ridiculously wrong fox to ever be trotted. Under his breath, Jack sing-hums, _Chantilly lace and a pretty face, and a pony tail hanging down._ He pushes Ianto away for a turn and swats his arse on the go round, still singing, _That wiggle in the walk and giggle in the talk, makes the world go 'round._ and Ianto is right back there again, flush with Jack and his slightly fruity alcohol breath that comes with champagne, and it's easy to let Jack kiss him whilst they sort of give up on steps and just jostle back and forth, and it takes all Jack has to kiss, because he stops moving altogether the more intense it gets.

'I think we've stopped,' Ianto says when Jack pulls away, his face, if he had to describe it, dopey. He smiles and tries to loosen Jack's tie further. He suspects that Jack has made himself slightly heady on champagne and then simply psyched himself into a deeper state of drunkenness. It has to be nice. Ianto hasn't been able to do it for years, but for a during his short stint at Uni, he had been a cheap date.

'Mmm.' Jack pulls off Ianto's shirt and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Ianto's jeans, glancing down when he realises that the button is gone and Ianto has safety pinned them together.

Ianto blushes. 'Look, they're my scrotty jeans—'

'No no,' Jack tells him, pushing him down on the sofa and crawling up his legs so that his face is level with Ianto's hardening denim covered cock. 'No, that makes it.' He winks. 'You know what I like.'

'You're dating yourself, Jayne,' Lisa sings from the hallway as she saunters down. She's taken off her blouse and skirt and Ianto likes to watch her walk around in a bra and panties, especially ones that he's bought her. She calls them her fancy pants. She sits on the back of the sofa and falls so that she's next to Ianto's head, her long legs across the back and hooked at the knees.

Jack crawls up Ianto's front so that he can kiss her, their mouths slow and lazy, and he's seemed to have forgot that he's crushing Ianto's face with his chest until Ianto grabs his dick through his trousers, and he grunts, then slides back down to kiss Ianto too. Not what he was going for, but okay then.

Lisa sighs and stretches her legs into the air, pointing her toes. Ianto sniffs the air, and he can smell her perfume, clinging to her like walking through a cobweb and then seeing it hanging from a sleeve in the sunlight.

'Lisa wears _Chanel_ ,' Jack whispers in his hear. 'But on special occasions, like tonight, she's wearing _Shalimar_.' Ianto waits for the National Geographic theme song to accompany Jack's lecture.

Lisa laughs, neck thrown back so that her throat bends, the arch of a black swan on the rounded edge of the sofa seat. 'Is he still on about the perfume?' Her hands reach up to arc in the air, straight out in front of her, pointed at the ceiling, and she does something graceful with them, inspired no doubt, by the evening's entertainment. Her toes point over the edge of the sofa, Ianto can see them, little red tipped things, blood-brushed water reeds, something about Titus Andronicus, and for a moment he wonders when he'd got to be so macabre.

Jack's seen more, he thinks as Jack drunkenly and amusedly kisses his way around Ianto's chest, singing about things so lighthearted and true that they make Ianto's thoughts look like a volume of a Charles Manson manifesto. Lisa's hands form a bow, and then a flower and a butterfly, making shadowpuppets in her skin without the light or the wall.

Jack's fingers undo the pin in his jeans and Jack kneels on the floor in front of the sofa, his eyes glossy and serious. 'I'm drunk.'

Lisa laughs and her hands fall above her head so she can yank his tie from around his neck and uses it to smack him in the face a couple times, as if he's insulted her honour. 'Whatever shall we do with you?' Ianto stretches and sits up, wondering where the safety pin has got to, because it would ruin sexy times to find it with his skin in a sensitive area, or even worse, to have Evan find it the next day with his foot when he's dancing around to Big Bird in China.

Jack closes the safety pin with his teeth and hands it to Ianto, because he's drunk but not stupid. Well, fastening a pin with your teeth is probably not on the Safety Board's list of approved drunken activities, but Ianto is pretty sure that what they're about to do next isn't either. He reaches over and slides one hand under Lisa's strapless bra, wondering how the hell that's even scientifically possible, because Lisa isn't remotely an A cup and somehow science has to fit in here. It's just the softness of her breast and the hardness of her nipple under his fingers, and her contented smile when Jack leans in and kisses her upside down, like Spiderman.

Jack's hands move of their own volition, or rather it seems he has no control over them, isn't even paying attention to the left as it snakes into Ianto's now open jeans and slides back and forth over the skin that had sat under the waistband on the side, stopping to grasp and just hold Ianto, like any second he's going to yank him closer. His right hand finger walks over the elastic peekaboo lace over Lisa's crotch and chooses a side entrance, pulling the sides in so that the fabric is bunched in the middle, and then he pulls it taut against her clit. Lisa moans a little into Jack's mouth, and Ianto settles in to watch Jack drunkenly and distractedly pick bizarre things out of his cornucopia of sexual experience. The best thing about it is the amusing way that Jack forgets what he's doing from one moment to the next, so that one second he's got his tongue in your arse and the next he's doing things to your nipples with a foreign object before you can even recover from the first.

It is safe to say that Ianto encourages Jack to drink sometimes. And then he clears their calendars.

Lisa pushes Jack away with a little laugh and says something about getting starkers and Jack pushes away from the sofa and smiles. 'Starkers? I can so get starkers. Watch action Jack reveal his anatomical parts,' he mumbles, playing with the buttons of his shirt and unbuckling his belt at the same time.

Ianto glances at Lisa. 'You know how this is going to end.'

Lisa smiles and reaches over her head distractedly to undo Jack's flies whilst he pulls his vest over his head and tosses it off in the direction of the kitchen, and then somehow Jack magics off his trousers and shorts and is standing to their left, at the side of the sofa. For a second Ianto is afraid that he's going to yell 'Geronimo!' and flop onto both of them, but instead he makes a triangle with his index fingers and thumbs and peers at them through it.

'I am Matisse,' he announces cryptically, shaking his head so that his fringe doesn't tickle his eyelids, probably. Jack's hair is longer than Ianto has ever seen it, and he'd suspect fashion if he hadn't known that Jack's last visit to the stylist (Jack calls it a barber, but Ianto knows her name is Renee) had been interrupted by a Hoix and a pile of incendiary devices in the shape of toy elephants. He nods to them and grasps his cock (alcohol is rarely an inhibitor for Jack. He always smiles and says something about fifty-first century genetics), and Ianto wonders if they shouldn't have tarp plastic.

'Jack—'

Jack winks and leans forward, hands on the arm of the sofa. 'Trust me. I'm an artiste.'

That is how they find themselves in a sort of ragged, gravity-defying daisy chain, Jack hanging over Lisa to suck Ianto, Lisa letting Jack fuck her mouth, Ianto twisted sideways on the sofa so that he can finger and lick Lisa's bare cunt. Ianto wants to turn her a little more, to get at her better. She's applied her perfume all over, maybe it's in the backs of her knees, her inner thighs, bergamot on her skin, something like vanilla that stayed in the pores hours after she'd run the stopper along the flesh there. Jack's mouth on his cock is hot and very wet and since Jack is holding himself onto the sofa, his hands are busy balancing.

Ianto spares a thought to wonder that he and Lisa are stone sober, and they'd still let Jack talk them into this, and isn't that the way of things. Lisa uses her fingers on Jack's balls, on the base of his cock. She partially holds him in place, and partially pushes his hips so that he doesn't grind into her face, which would be easy to do what with the drunk and the balance issue.

'Mummy?' Evan says from his room, and they freeze. There is the telltale thud of feet hitting the floor and the shuffle of his plastic jim-jams on the hardwood. Jack pulls off of Ianto's cock and Lisa pushes his hips to the side so that he falls from his balancing act on the sofa edge and onto the floor with a thump. Ianto wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and tucks himself back into his jeans, but without the pin he's not very secure. His cock aches against the denim.

Jack thunks his head on the floor and laughs. Lisa flips her bra back up over her breasts and murmurs something about her knickers. Ianto glances down at Jack, who is drunkenly trying to put them on. Ah. Ianto doesn't stop him.

Jack has the knickers on and Lisa has given up, righting herself on the sofa just in time for Evan to reach the back of it. He stands there and Ianto turns and rests his head on his arms on the back of the sofa.

'Baby,' Lisa says, 'what's wrong?'

Ianto is watching her drop to her knees and reach for Evan, and she's gorgeous and her breasts are wedged into that bra and her knickers are missing and he can see the gleam of his spit on her thigh and he wants to amend that, lick it off and create more spit, make her wet and wet, then maybe in a few more minutes after they've got Evan packed away again he and Jack will—

Evan glances at him, and then looks back at Lisa and promptly vomits all over her and the carpet.

Ianto is over the sofa back instantly, hands out, but Lisa is picking Evan up and saying something like, 'Oh, let me, let me,' and Evan sicks up again on her front, all down that bra and her belly, and she carts him off to the toilet, leaving a trail of what Ianto is sure had once been Mackie's toffee chunk ice cream in her wake. He stands there and looks at the mess on the carpet, brain already setting the order of events as they should happen for maximum efficiency, so that he can take care of this and still get laid as quickly as possible.

What?

Jack peeks over the edge of the sofa at the mess, then laughs into the leather. 'Ah, game over.'

***

By the time Ianto has washed the vomit from the carpet and Lisa has washed Evan and tucked him back into bed, they are in need of a bit of washing up themselves. Jack is nowhere in sight, but that might mean that he's in bed, or on the floor in the kitchen, communing with the Mexican tile, or out on the patio, still wearing Lisa's knickers, dancing around to the greatest hits of the Big Bopper in his head.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Ianto isn't in the mood to wrangle him yet, so he and Lisa slip in the shower together for a rinse. His hands smell like the sweetness of the carpet cleaner hiding something rancid underneath, and Lisa smells the inverse, rancid over sweetness (Evan had sicked up on her whilst she'd been rocking him on the bed, and she'd had to change his clothes and the sheets all over again. Jack has been notoriously absent.).

Lisa washes her body quickly and clinically; it's easy to forget how attractive one is when it's one's own body, so he forgives her for her surprise when she rolls her eyes as he drops to his knees in the shower and crooks one of her knees up on the wall-mounted soap dish so that he can finish what he started earlier, biting at her clit with his teeth, dipping fingers into her and fucking her as he smells her. All her perfume is gone and the soap hasn't even made it there yet, so it's just her in the spray, just her wetness on his nose, on his chin and cheeks when he rubs his face in it, when he laves the very top of her there and rasps his tongue on her pubic hair.

She bucks a bit and whines and pants and the propped foot goes around his shoulder to thump on his back, and he grasps her hips and pushes at her arse, sticking in two fingers, massaging the perineum with his thumb whilst he fucks her with his other hand. She curses and comes and slaps the wall behind her, because Lisa has always been a hitter during sex, the flat of her palm strikes indiscriminately where it falls, sometimes leaving behind harmlessly smacked sheets or quickly reddening skin. He waits there for her when he's done, rubbing his lips across the outer folds of her, a distracted gesture like the tapping of one's cheek with a pencil whilst thinking, and she pets his head. 'Oh, please, that—'

He sits back and she helps him to stand, and they resume washing with the efficiency of two people who can wait for the bed for kisses, and if they all said thank you after every time they had sex in this house, that penny would be so worn the imprints would be gone.

On the other hand it would be quite shiny.

So he isn't really ready for her hand on his cock, and her gentle strokes on his balls that signal that she's about to give him one of her hybrid techniques that he secretly calls the Hallet-Harkness Special. He only gets these when he's been a very good boy.

Well, he wasn't the one who went to the ballet and got soused and then fucked off whilst the others cleaned all the sick-up off the floor, so he deserves it.

Her hands are still on the warm-up when the door opens and Ianto jerks his head, because he's worried that Evan is up again. The form through the frosted glass is too large to be Evan, so it must be Jack. He is about to open the door and tell Jack to piss off or get him off, and then he could have the Harkness-Hallett-Harkness Special (it is a Thing. It exists) when he hears Jack groan a little, and Lisa's hands leave his cock. She slides the glass door back and they see Jack on his knees in front of the toilet, his head bent. He is still only wearing Lisa's fancy pants, stretched tight over his arse, the elastic digging into the very little bit of soft flesh on his hips.

Ianto thinks that he would like to fuck Jack in the fancy pants.

Jack has other ideas. 'I think I'm going to—' and he promptly vomits in the bowl.

Ianto glances at Lisa ruefully. 'What all did he drink?'

Lisa rolls her eyes. 'A quarter-bottle of champagne,' she answers.

Ianto frowns. 'That's not a lot.'

'And then three-quarters of a bottle of Remy Martin,' Lisa adds. 'Believe me, he doesn't remember that. It was in the monstrously huge hip flask he was sharing with the little old lady beside him.' Her smile is amused as she watches Jack's arse in her knickers. ' _Then_ he killed the champagne bottle on the way home in the car.' She slides the door shut so that they have only a crack of unobstructed non-frosted view. 'You'll let the steam out.'

Ianto is insanely grateful that he hadn't called Jack that evening when Gwen had told him not to. Not only is he being rewarded for his good behavior with repeating vomit adventures, but Lisa is, on the other hand, using her free 'other one' to work his cock, and he can only gasp and watch Jack's miserable form whilst Ianto comes into her palm, not bothering to mask the fact that he's coming.

Jack vomits again, and Ianto is grateful that he is adult enough to hit the toilet. He wonders if he's going to find any surprises out on the patio tomorrow morning.

He's also disturbed by the similarity in the noises they are both making.

Jack is finished being sick, apparently, and he rests his head on his arms, then staggers to his feet and drinks from the tap, which is no mean feat. Ianto continues to watch him from the cracked door when Jack straightens, splashes water on his face and flushes the toilet.

Lisa screams and Ianto reaches over her to angle the spray away before adjusting the temperature, and Jack turns, as if he's surprised that they are there, even though he had just been talking to them. His eyes widen and he lurches forward, but trips on the throw rug and stumbles into the glass door, or would have if Ianto hadn't whipped it aside at the last minute and caught him. What could have been a bloody mess is instead something worth laughing over when Jack steps into the shower and groans.

'You are Matisse,' Lisa jokes, and Jack raises a hand, but what he intends to do with it is lost in the movement of Jack bending over above the drain and vomiting up the three ounces of water that he has just drunk from the tap.

Ianto can sympathise. Lisa rubs slow circles on Jack's back and Jack coughs. 'My puke was cold,' he says.

'I am sure it was,' Ianto says, but he doesn't want to dwell. He's a little hazy with post coital-bliss and the adrenaline from earlier in the night on the comms with Gwen and the team has worn off, so now he's just tired. Lisa's eyes are hooded with exhaustion, first from the excitement of the night's entertainment(s), and then with the altered state of being that kicks in when one's child projectile vomits suddenly and without warning.

And there there's the _other_ child.

Unfair, Ianto thinks, and realises that viewing Jack as a child is a novelty in the purest definition of the word, so that's okay.

'I drank too much,' Jack says, forehead pressed to the tile wall. Ianto soaps up the net ball they all use (only Lisa admits to using it. Jack says he washes himself with his "manhands". Ianto has never had to talk about using the "poof", but you know) and runs the suds along Jack's back, whilst Lisa turns him so that he is leaning on her front, his face buried in her neck.

The shower will continue to be warm for at least another ten minutes, and he takes his time, smoothing the thing along the contours of Jack's back, down between his buttocks, around the front to the navel and chest. At times he skips bodies and moves to Lisa, circling around her breasts, shoulders, down her arm before coming back to Jack's neck, his elbows or fingers or every other little bit of skin that he can find and slide the netting over, following always with his fingers, as if he has to check that the thing has done its job.

Jack murmurs something into Lisa's ear and she laughs, her eyes making contact with Ianto's, but she doesn't enlighten him. Ianto cleans Jack's soft cock, and it doesn't react to him, so he must be either quite ill or quite drunk.

He turns down the cold and ups the hot, making the flow last longer, runs the poof over himself perfunctorily, and then angles the showerhead so that they all rinse off together with the downpour of heat. Then he settles against the wall behind Jack, leaning on it with his left shoulder. They all prop each other up and loll their heads in the steam and the general stillness of nothing but the sound of the water and the water hitting skin, which is a distinct change in the volume and pitch of the whole thing, Ianto has always found.

He closes his eyes and sighs into the back of Jack's head, and then Lisa's hand comes around to find his fingers, and they twine together, over Jack's hip in the middle of it all, braced together like a pile of sticks ready to be set alight, but doused by a sudden rain.

END


End file.
